Munkustrap – Part Ten

I had thought that inviting Desere to live with me, taking in a ward so suddenly, would have been a dramatic change from my solitary bachelor life. I had thought that I would have to change so many things about the way I lived to make her comfortable and at home. And I was wrong. Barely anything changed.

While Bombalurina was residing in a private location away from Macavity's detection, she was also helping me get Desere settled. For nearly the entire week after her arrival all the two females did was talk, in the penthouse, at restaurants, for hours on end they caught up on whatever had gone on in the time they were separated, I imagine. I didn't try to intrude, but the way sound carries in that large place of mine their voices drifted throughout the large, open spaces, and I was able to pick up bits of their conversation before turning on the radio. I won't repeat the things I heard...it would be a betrayal of trust. In that time they grew so close one would think they were sisters. Perhaps it was like that before... I could stand in the doorway of a room and watch how they interacted. Sometimes they didn't even need to speak, they were such in-tune.

Knowing very little about females myself, I left it up to Bombalurina to shop for whatever Desere would need. The girl was very modest. She didn't seem to want anything, never asked for anything. When I offered her anything, even a handshake, she would shrink away from me as though my intentions were all the same. She didn't like being fussed over in the slightest way, refused most luxuries. Bombalurina tried to explain it as Desere having a strong distrust in men. After all that had been done to her...

"There's never been a tom that's been kind to her," she told me once. "She doesn't hate you, it's more like a..." She didn't seem to be able to finish.

"It's alright," I nodded. "We'll just have to change that, won't we?"

"You're a good cat, Hunter. She can learn to trust you, at least."

My turn to be modest.

But if Desere was in any way wanting to trust me, she seemed in no hurry. In the days when business or affairs didn't take me elsewhere and I remained at the penthouse all day, she rarely even left the privacy of her room. Of course I only noticed this after four or five months. Of my entire penthouse Desere had full possession of the larger half I rarely used, if ever. Some days I never even saw or spoke to her. She was very uncomfortable around other people. Of the parties I threw occasionally (not by my own will...demmed boring, those things are) she remained in the privacy of her own room. What she did, I was never certain. In the few times when I slipped inside to ask if she needed anything I usually found her seated in a chair or staring out a window, curled up in her thick woolly bathrobes. She wouldn't speak to me. A nod or shake of her head when I inquired, and that would be the end of it. I tried not to bother her, never pressing her to attend any of those flashy spectacles or to accompany me anywhere in public. I left her to herself: quiet, alone, cold... La, sounds like another relationship I once had with another woman.

But really Desere reminded me nothing of Adelle. Dark-skinned and dark-haired, unobtrusive and never smiling, she was everything Adelle wasn't. She never wore dresses, never wore anything much at all except the numerous thick bathrobes she possessed that covered her figure entirely, nor did she adorn any kind of jewelry or cosmetics. Her hair—odd, her human mane being almost black when her werecat fur was the purest of gold—never changed from hanging straight down. Despite all this...sometimes...I could be sitting in the silence of my study and hear her footsteps down the hall, her quiet breathing, and for a fleeting hopeful second I would think it was Adelle. A glance at a sun-filled window would annul those thoughts quickly.

But in those years I lived separately with Desere I was quite busy. After renouncing his leadership of the Jellicles and retiring from his acting career, it seemed that Gus had unlimited time on his hands. Back and forth we worked on my idea of a musical production about us werecats, writing music, incorporating every song we knew, using our cat names and descriptions as characters. Lyrics and music were really no problem, as the content we used were the very same songs sung in everyday Jellicle life...Bustopher's, Jennyanydots's, Tugger's, nearly all the cats in Manhattan had song about themselves save the younger generation. I wish Bombalurina had one about her...or Cassandra...but Skimble, Gus, and the rest would have to suffice. The Jellicle Ball was to be the centerpoint of the entire spectacle, every verse sung by the cat characters and followed by an astounding dance piece that Cassandra spent a large time in choreographing. Dancing for the slim brown female was second nature, and between her, Bombalurina, Mistoffelees, and Jennyanydots they conjured up dance routines to the songs that left both Gus and I astonished. It was put together in less than a year.

I hadn't noticed I'd been so wrapped up in the research and decision-making about other aspects of the show—costumes, set, makeup, and such—until one day I received a phonecall from Lord Greene.

"For pity's sake, man, we haven't seen you in a month!"

Frowning, I leaned back with a pop of my spine from where I'd been leaning intently over a character representation sketch of Pouncival, rubbing my eyes. It was only beginning to get dark. "I say, whatever do you mean?"

"Come now, Blakeney. You've been so wrapped up recently some of the ol' boys have been missing you..."

Missing me? That was the lie of the day.

"...perhaps because of that little beauty living with you, eh?" A laugh of knowing from the other end which left my expression one of open horror. "You dog."

"Demmed impertinence!" I growled, cutting his laughter short. "I'll have you know, my good man, that girl is an unfortunate friend who is in serious need of some protection and is of little more worth to me other than a daughter!"

"Well, I only meant—"

"Do state the purpose of your call, sir. I've got demmed better things to occupy my time than sit here and listen to your insults." Harsh words for a nincompoop. I'm sure that's what he thought.

"Ah...yes. Um, well, an old friend of yours has called me up to request that I inform you: she is giving a masquerade charity ball."

I was unsuccessful in trying to place who he meant by an old female friend, and didn't try for long. Most people found it a brag to call themselves Hunter Blakeney's 'friend.' "Why did she not call herself?"

"She would rather surprise you."

Heaviside blast it... "Very well, I'd be happy to attend. Oh dear, what to wear..." Another lie. I received the date and location and promptly hung up before he could make any further requests, which by his tone I felt he might. I didn't notice Desere standing in the door until I heard her voice.

"Hunter?"

Turning, it was like seeing a fish out of water to spot her there, covered in her silk green bathrobe: the only thin piece she seemed comfortable to wear. I was surprised, as well. Not often did she seek me out.

"Yes, dear?"

She folded her arms across herself, her face turned down. "I think...I need to go to Bombalurina's..."

Probably the longest sentence she'd said to me thus far. Rising from my chair with a painful strain in my numb feet, I was on the verge of asking why as I stepped closer to her. A few paces, and I found out. Stopping immediately in my tracks, I drew in a breath and held it, stiffening. "Oh...I see. I'll...er...I'll go call you a ride. Gather whatever you'll need."

She lingered a moment, then just as silent turned and padded back to her room. I let my breath out rapidly, shaking back my messed hair. That was strange...

Desere's female heats weren't as much of a problem as I had originally thought. Firstly, she didn't have them as often as other females did. I didn't know why...nor were they as intense as, say, Cassandra's. I had only to take a few steps towards her to smell the taint in the air, and despite the urges which were obviously present I found I had much more control than with Cassandra. Still, I didn't want to take any chances. As time went on it became a routine. Either she was sent away to Bombalurina's or Jennyanydots's until the short time was over, or I could arrange to be away in the time she was putting off her scent. More often it was the first option, as I didn't like leaving her alone.

Her paranoia seemed to have no end. Never did she let me touch her. Save for that frantic time I carried her away from Macavity's realm no contact was allowed. But despite her fear of me, some things Desere did were entirely on her own—well, perhaps some Bombalurina influence—and I imagine were done out of pure effort for my sake. Such as cooking... After releasing my maidservant I had gotten most of my meals from restaurants or whatever my whiskers could pick up in an alley (not often from the alley though...the heartburn was terrible), for if I'd been living on my own efforts in the kitchen I'd have starved to death long ago. To arrive home one evening and find a home-cooked dinner set out was a welcome change from the frequent outings. Desere was a marvelous chef, though where she learned I never inquired to ask. Nor did she join me. I ate alone, but it didn't overly bother me. I slipped a small note under the door of her room thanking her for the supper, and on every occasion afterward when I couldn't say it to her in person.

It was in the time she spent at Bombalurina's waiting out her heat that I tore myself away from the musical long enough to focus on the masquerade I'd been invited to. Demmed my father's sayings, for one was always that a gentleman never refuses an invitation. That was in my head as I sat before the fireplace, a gentle frost gathering outside in the late October month. Just for the comfort of feeling the warmth of the fire on my bare fur I shifted to full werecat and paced the room gently, gazing over the space in hopes of an idea of what to attend dressed as...and also who was the unknown female 'friend.'

As far as I knew I had no real friends. Not anymore. Mark as I think back on him in absolute guilt I despise, his behavior being exactly what I wasn't now. Bustopher was more of my father than my father had ever been. None closer. The incident with Desere had certainly brought Bombalurina and I closer, perhaps our friendship blooming out of mere necessity and concern for my ward. Tugger had cut me off after the same event. I hadn't spoken to him since. But overall, in between these special Jellicles in my life, I don't think I had any friends. I think the other Jellicles were shifty and...I daresay it...uncomfortable around where I lived. I may as well admit it: none of the other cats shared my social class, and it put a void between us.

No friends weren't a bother to me. I liked to be alone, sitting in the dry comfort of my study with only my books and a cold drink. I had never held a job in my life—with my fortunes, there was never a need—and to keep myself from going mad a steady occupation was needed. Easy enough. I had my history and antiques that I collected, most of it Jellicle origin, but not all. For days on end I could stay absorbed in a particular subject before I stumbled over something else that caught my interest. Already I had refilled the study and library with atlases, history books, and books of occult rather than the collection of literature and poetry my father kept. With these and my searches over the Internet and my contacts around the world, I could keep a keen eye open for any other items I might like to get my paws around.

As for Desere...

I tried everything I knew. All she had to do was ask for anything she wanted and it would be hers. She had entire freedom to come and go as she pleased. If she wanted to see Bombalurina, as she often did, I would send her over in a chauffeured ride or have Bombalurina come here. I tried to make her as comfortable as I could, left her to her privacy, was as friendly as I could in the times when she came about. After quite some time I could get her to talk for over five minutes, but not very often. She never seemed happy, and yet I could never find the cause. Even she told Bombalurina she was comfortable and felt safe here. Without having been informed of what had gone on between the two of them and Macavity I doubted I ever would know the true cause of her unhappiness. I had a general idea, though.

An hour passed. Still I had not found the slightest idea of who the hostess could be. But I had at least decided on a costume idea. It came from when I had caught a glimpse of my stripes in the wall mirror. A tiger... Shifting back to my human self, complete with forever fur, I grabbed the necessary books from the shelf for design references when I caught a closer look at myself in that same mirror.

Something about my hair in particular caught my eye. Turning so that I faced the mirror profile, I brushed my fingers carefully over the fringe of hair I kept cut just above my ears. My hair I had never really fussed with, keeping it cut long and held back in the ponytail-style I'd seen worn around the late 1700s, around the French Revolution (one of my favorite time periods of which I had a particular interest in). But that wasn't what struck me then in a burst of surprise...

Gray. My hair was beginning to turn gray.

For some odd reason I laughed and drew back away from the mirror. It was strange, now that I think about it. Usually Jellicles have hair in their human form that mimics their feline coats: Bombalurina's was red, Bustopher's was black, and so on. But my hair had always been that strange brown-blonde mix while my coat was silver. The notion that my hair was going gray now seemed only appropriate, and didn't bother me much. I had too many other things to think about.

And demmed that I allowed myself to endure those boring spectacles of show like that masquerade ball. Of course I could always chuckle at the thought of how much more boring they would have been had Hunter Blakeney not been there! Sink me, what a notion! But even that didn't make me any more enthusiastic about attending.

For the masquerade I had a suit designed like a tiger. A yellow frock coat covered in bold black stripes, it had an excessive amount of lace ruffles and satin frills: common Blakeney style. Custom-made to fit me, it was completed with the silk breeches and sparkling vest common with that time period I held such an interest in. And, of course, a matching tiger mask.

At roughly nine o'clock I was decked fully in this ridiculous outfit and striding with the proud gait of a peacock into the enormous complex whose owner and host were still unknown. Lights flooded the complex, making it ablaze with gold and a beacon of life in the frosty October night scene of Manhattan. Like a palace... And the scene inside the enormous gathering entrance was even more of a spectacle. Men and women of all kinds dressed in the most elaborate and colorful costumes. Some were demons, some were birds, some jesters, others unrecognizable. Yet among the tinkle of clinking glasses and the soft music playing over the area they were the ideal images of merriment. Slipping my tiger mask down over my face, I strode through them purposefully with no real destination in mind except the table at the other end of the hall where I could perhaps find a seat. Wishful thinking...

It seemed not even a mask could hide my identity. Perhaps it was the relation my outfit had to a cat... Whatever the reason no sooner had I taken a step among them was I surrounded in cheerful greetings and gestures. They were returned, of course, in typical Blakeney style, and right off I invitations to dance were uncountable. Ah, well, suffering is good for the soul, I imagine.

The hours swept by. Despite the constant despair at being around so many people—sometimes feeling as though I could barely breathe—the quick, graceful steps of the waltzes sent the background colors of the room into a gently spinning blur as I focused on the face of whichever young girl happened to be near at the time. There were all so alike...all wearing too much perfume that burned my nose, all so eager and excited to be about their conversation was downright ditzy, and all horrible dancers. No natural grace or rhythm to speak of whatsoever. Countless mask styles and colors had passed before me by the time I decided I'd put up with enough, and pulling a handkerchief to dab at my brow I excused myself and hurried to the far end of the room that had so far been detained for nearly two hours. Slipping to the table I snatched a glass of champagne and downed it in one gulp, barely feeling the angry jerk of my gut as I did so. The raven-dressed tender eyed me quizzically.

"Thirsty, sir?"

I laughed tiredly at him, straightening. "You don't know the half of it..." Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Mr. Blakeney?"

I turned, searching through the sequence and feathers until a green peacock-style mask popped up all of two inches from my face. Jumping back with a small cry that could well be disguised as a laugh, a small white-gloved hand reached up to pull away the mask, under which a smiling face and slight giggle could be heard. A powdered round face, those dark eyes and red lips struck my memory in an explosion of realization, and lifting my tiger mask I couldn't contain my surprise.

"Sara!?!"

"Hello Hunter," Sara Whitson smiled sweetly. There was my unknown hostess. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"Forever," I nodded, caught between nervousness at what had happened the last time I'd been with her and relief at a familiar face.

"It's good to see you," she went on, extending her hand in ceremonial fashion. "I hoped you'd come."

Bowing with equal custom, I took her hand and kissed the back of it, glancing up with the same idiotic smile. To be honest I wasn't sure what to say. The last time I'd seen Sara was not the most pleasing of situations, and the awkwardness at seeing her so suddenly again whirled my mind back to that same set mode it had been in that night when I was seventeen. The brat...

"Sink me, madame! You haven't changed a bit since I last saw you. Abso-blooming-lutely lovely party, for sure."

"Oh, Hunter," she laughed, "flattery will get you nowhere. Come along." Side by side we walked slowly around the edge of the dance floor. "It's so stuffy in here, would you rather grab some fresh air outside?"

"Odd's fish, you read my mind!"

"I heard about your wife," she said at length sincerely. "I'm so sorry..."

"Ah, yes, well," Hunter sighed, lowering my mask, "demmed things happen to even the best of us."

"What happened?"

"Inconsolable differences, my dear. It couldn't be helped." It was a half-truth. Scratching my forehead with another sigh, I turned my thoughts away by pure force. "I say, how have you gotten along? I'm absolutely certain a hundred men must have thrown themselves at your feet after a mere glance of your lovely self!"

"Why, Mr. Blakeney," she laughed. I extended my arm in a gentlemen-like fashion, and she took it, and together we strolled out for the terrace. "You have changed so much from that little boy I knew who turned seventeen."

Blushing at the memory, Hunter Blakeney only grinned wider. "La, my dear, how you remember! I do say, I must apologize for that night, Miss Whitson. It has been heavy on my mind ever since."

"Oh no," she said, equally sincere. "It's I who should apologize. I can't imagine your voice being this high had I not...well, you remember."

Yes, I did remember. And as outraged as I was at the mention of my voice pitch (which wasn't high at all, by Heaviside!) Hunter only laughed again. "As your ladyship wishes."

The double glass doors which opened up into the terrace were already propped open, and stepping out into the chilly October air was a welcome release from the hot interior of the complex. Taking in a deep breath I pulled off my mask and set it on the glass table near the door. Sara did likewise with hers. I tossed up my arms to allow some of the cool night air to get within the folds of my jacket, wiping away the clinging heat. Drawn by the noises below for no particular reason, I moved away from Sara a moment to ease toward the edge of the building, peering over into the brightly-lit street. The wind over the edge of the building was stronger, and felt wonderful as I turned my face into it. There was always something about wind...something I loved...

"Lovely night," Sara said. Turning back, one hand set in my pocket, I saw her seated on the bench. The sight of her sitting there I daresay was beautiful. She wasn't the girl I knew before; she looked more mature, more ladylike now. Her ankles crossed beneath the intricate-carved legs of the stone bench, her hands folded in her lap. Her skin against her dark emerald-green dress was pale as ivory and just as smooth. Her dark near-black hair was thick and curled around her cheeks and throat, not straight and short as when the last time I'd seen her. She had a woman's qualities, and what I thought about that I wasn't quite sure.

"It is," I nodded, turning back.

"Come on, Hunter." She patted the bench beside her. I eyed it warily, one brow raised. "Well, come on!" she laughed after a moment. "I won't bite."

Thank Heaviside...

But I knew better. I don't know why I went ahead and sat down...I guess I have a hard time learning things when it comes to the opposite gender. I leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows set on my knees, staring at the lights filtering up over the building's edge. I could feel her eyes on me even then, a prickle in my side of uncomfortable feeling. Even so I didn't make any attempts to move away. That always seemed like a problem with me...

I didn't like the way Sara was looking at me, scooting closer beside me on the stone bench. It was the look of a hungry werewolf eyeing an enormous piece of fresh meat. Her scent changed, as well. She wanted something. At that moment I had a fair idea of what, but again—thanks to my stupid idealistic optimism that the majority of humans are decent—I just sat and hoped silently her mind was elsewhere. I remembered that night on the rooftop when I was seventeen...an eternity ago. History was repeating itself, and this time the roles were reversed.

"I know you still want me, Hunter. I have feelings about these things." She touched my shoulder, and tense beyond description I looked up at her. She indeed was beautiful, much more sophisticated than that girl I'd tried to kiss before. The urges were there, no doubt, but she wasn't talking about that. Sara meant marriage. Logic was also present, and stiffly I rose to my feet to take a few wary steps away towards the end of the bench.

"I'm sure," I said, "that you've told your five past husbands the same thing?" I wasn't blind to her plan; I had read the papers. The five husbands of Sara Whitson had all been rich old men, who had all either divorced her shortly afterwards or died one way or another. In addition to her family's assets the five divorce settlements and wills left her quite wealthy. How obvious did it have to be?

"You're different," she said, rising to follow me like a persistent hovering vulture. "When I read that you had married Adelle...I was shocked. I had always believed that you and I would be together some day." She was behind me now, speaking as fluidly as any politician. "And we would be perfect together, don't you see? We're both rich, successful, single," a small giggle that I could have clawed her for, "and equally good-looking. Why shouldn't we be?"

I think it was then that I realized what it had been that made her think she could accomplish this feat so blatantly. Hunter Blakeney was an idiot to the public. What better way for a greedy black widow to get her hands on another fortune? It was disgusting of course, but expected, I imagine. Well, if the ninny was what she wanted...

"Sink me, madame!" I reeled, turning to face her with as genuine a ninny face as could be. "Whatever happened to that demmed matter of love?"

"Love?" she laughed, as though the word was as childish and inane as the one who spoke it. "Love isn't a factor in the world today, Hunter. These days it's all about necessity. There's no such thing as true love."

A debatable point, but one I was afraid I would agree with. Either way I wasn't going to stand here and listen a moment longer, and feigned a yawn as I turned to leave. "Yes, well, to each their own, madame. Toodle pip!"

"Now Hunter Blakeney!" she pouted, her hands akimbo on her hips. I paused, turned back. She extended one arm, lithe and the color of ivory in the dark setting. "Aren't you even going to kiss your hostess in thanks?"

I knew I shouldn't have, as reason dictated, but then what would Hunter Blakeney have done? Slumping my shoulders I turned back, grin forsaken, and gently took her offered hand to lightly kiss the back of it with the customary bow.

As I said, our roles were reversed.

Sara didn't waste any time. Grabbing the folds of my yellow coat she jerked me back up to her level, throwing herself forward with her arms clamped around my neck. Stunned for a moment as her scent flooded my werecat senses, I didn't notice her kissing me, and when I finally did there was no relish. My arms shot out like twin battering rams and pushed her away, nearly knocking myself over in the process. Stumbling backwards, I back-pedaled until the stone bench was between us, and only then stopped for breath.

"That will be quite enough, madame!"

Sara righted herself, straightening her green dress, and wasted no time closing the distance between us. Her eyes were blazing with that animalistic glow, that hunger. She moved quickly, to the other end of the bench, her maniacal grin like a child getting their hands around a full cookie jar.

"But you don't understand," she exasperated. "There's something about you, Hunter! You're not like other men. You're...you're feral. You're mysterious. You're not the fool you pretend to be. I have to know everything about you. I must have you!"

Well, she was right about one thing. Any other day I would have been flattered red, but the way her voice said those words made it seem more like an obsession, as though she were mad. She very well may have been! For as she spoke the most outrageous thing happened.

Sara began chasing me! As though the situation weren't awkward enough, when she began to dart across the bench toward me I did the same the other way, leading us in an immature Ring Around the Rosy. Sara's voice was a delighted laugh. I had the faster reflexes, the more dexterous ability thanks to my feline self, but not even those were good enough to get away from her. I saw over Sara's shoulder the brightly-lit entrance of the room beyond where the masquerade continued, unaware of this fancy taking place outside. Abandoning this silly game, I bolted for it, knowing full well a crowded room was my only safety. But in doing so I had to dash past Sara, giving her the open opportunity to trip me.

And she did.

Her leg extended at the last possible second, and unable to dodge away in time my foot caught on it. An involuntary cry which very well could have been a caterwaul instead, only the reflexes of a cat saved my head from a brutal end on the concrete steps. My hands hit the ground first, and without the need for thought my shoulder tucked in, leading the rest of me into a cushioned roll against the steps rather than a hard smack. Fabric tore as my coat skidded on the hard concrete, but for the most part I managed to keep intact. Rolling once, I gathered myself in time enough to backflip-away the rest of the fall's momentum, and when I stopped I was in a cat-like crouch, one leg extended to the side and one arm behind me, hand flexed as though the claws were already there. Luckily, they weren't. My eyes were wide and intense as they glared up at the only other being on the terrace, her hand to her throat. Slowly, catching my breath that was lost in the scare, I stood back up, occupying myself with inspecting the coat's damage as Sara spoke in barely a whisper. Instead of an apology, she was astonished.

"Hunter, I...I never knew you could do that!"

"Surprise," I said grimly, in no mood now to put up the facade any longer. The coat was horribly battered down one side, the shoulder I'd landed on torn beyond repair. "Now if you're quite done..." No bow, no kiss, not even a nod, and I left a very dumbfounded Sara Whitson alone on the terrace. I could have stayed and perhaps purred her enough to where she would forget what she had seen, but I didn't want to linger in her presence a moment longer. Besides, purring had a tendency to provoke affection. Surely by tomorrow she would have told everyone that Hunter Blakeney could do backflips with the best of dancers, but I doubted many would believe her.

Several curious faces turned as I swept back angrily into the midst of the party (unable to get out of the complex any other direction), but I paid them no heed, holding the shoulder of my frock coat as I wept through them at a speedy power walk. Lord Greene pushed his way through, his eyes immediately finding the long tear.

"Blakeney, what happened?" he gasped.

"Nothing you need to fret yourself over, my good man," I said coldly, never slowing. "Carry on, I'll not be back tonight." Leaving him I headed directly downstairs and didn't stop my fierce pace until I was in the limousine and headed home.

I didn't know a second's relief until the heavy wooden door to my own penthouse closed behind me and I leaned back against it, exhaling a heavy sigh. What had just happened back there? Pressing my hands against the door to keep them steady I leaned my head back against the wood, closing my eyes. Sara was nothing to me any longer. She never had been. There were no women in my life, nor would there ever be. It was quite possibly the one thing I couldn't afford. The exception was Desere, but I couldn't ever bring myself to love her as I had Adelle. It wasn't just for the reason I had given my word not to lay a paw on her, but...frankly, it was quite obvious that neither of us wanted to be involved. She was an adopted daughter to me, and that was all.

These thoughts were quite uncalled for and probably the result of my over-extensive thinking, but nonetheless I had them. Opening my eyes again I left the support of the door to walk silently through the entranceway into the rest of the apartment house. Several of the lights were on, though the place itself was silent. It was almost eleven o'clock, and just as well, for I had promised Desere I would be back before midnight. The recent scents wafting through the air made it known she was still here, probably in her room, and not wanting to risk a confrontation with her I made swiftly across the main hall and up the stairs, and finally feeling the handles of the enormous double-glass doors that led onto the roof I threw them open wide and stepped out into the fresh, night air. The coldness was a shock of change from the warmth of inside, but a welcome one. Letting the doors close behind me I paced out into the roof's small garden, content to sort myself out here until the lights inside went off, indicating Desere's going to bed, or until midnight approached.

My penthouse was one known widely by the public and press: the size of a full two-story house, it rode the top floor of the apartment building striding the corner of Fifth Avenue and Broadway. It had been featured in several housing, well-to-do, and fashion magazines. This I found somewhat amusing. A mere change in the layout of my home, the color scheme, the placement or design of the furniture, could spark a flame in the fashion industry and utterly change people's concept of what style really was. (Sometimes I did this deliberately just to laugh at it.) But what I loved most about my 'apartment' was the garden spread out over the rooftop. Kept fresh by daily tending, I enjoyed relaxing among its flora year-round save for winter, in which case I preferred a seat before the fireplace anyway. Full-grown dogwoods and small pines lent their shade, scent and color on warm days, and on this night their serenity brought a peaceful harmony over the place. In the moonlight the place looked utterly poetic despite the chilly late autumn air.

I sat in the curved wooden bench in the midst of all the plants, flowers, and bushes, gazing into the silvery glade. This was perhaps my only touch of nature in Manhattan, the place where the cat in me felt most secure. All was quiet around me, the noisy cars from below dimmed by sheer height of the building. Its peace was broken only by the occasional ghostly wisp of a falling leaf. Even as midnight approached the two window-laden doors behind me were still brightly-lit, indicating Desere was still up and about. And despite my usual content of sitting in the garden, tonight I felt no peace.

Abandoning the low seat of the bench, I grunted and pushed myself to my feet, pacing through the garden's small winding gravel path. With my hands shoved deep into the pockets of the silk breeches and torn coat, I stared at the ground, listening to the crunch of the gravel under my shoes, crisp with frost. My mind was a jumble of random thoughts, fleeting and as wispy as the cold breeze that ruffled the loose end of my tied-back hair and bit at my scantily-covered shoulder. My thoughts kept wandering back to the masquerade, the dancing, the music, the laughter. I remembered the couples spread out over the floor, dressed in their jewels and fancy Renaissance and Gothic costumes, each sparkle and color illuminated by the enormous chandeliers. I tried not to think about Sara, and instead I remembered the faces and sweet scents of the many girls I had danced with...their perfume, their childlike smiles. I had danced with so many, only a few whose names I even knew. But they all knew me. Hunter Blakeney...the rich bachelor. The sudden cause of my discomfort hit me then: I was lonely.

And furthermore I was doing nothing but feeling sorry for myself as I paced this garden. The more I thought about it, the more pitiful I felt. But are not humans entitled to self-pity? No, not when there were matters larger than themselves to be thought of. Not when they're not even human. Hadn't I faced this problem after Bustopher's death?

"More like you're a rich b*****d," I couldn't help but growl out loud.

The sudden click of the window doors shutting brought my attention. Desere's thin silhouette stood against them, face hidden in shadow. Her hands were clasping her arms, hugging herself as was common but also probably for protection against the cold air. For a moment I caught my reflection in the windows behind her. In my tiger costume I was a gold statue in the darkness of the garden, battered and ruffled from the evening's activities. I didn't raise my head though I noticed her, and continued walking. I turned towards the set of steps leading through the wall and onto the patio, intending to cross over the divide on the roof to be alone once more.

"Hunter?"

I had one foot on the steps when her voice cut the silence. I went rigid, inwardly preparing to act the part of the rich nincompoop that I excelled at, and pretended to be startled at her voice. I stood tall to full height and turned to look at her. Then, with that consummate gallantry I used in addressing any woman:

"At your service, Madame!" I kept my foot on the step, hoping that my posture would suggest that I had no want to speak with her right now. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"It's a nice night," she said timidly. Was it? "Would you mind staying in the garden for a while longer? I'd like to sit..." Hastily she stepped back a pace, looking at the ground. "But, if you're busy..."

"Ah, quite the opposite, Madame," I grinned widely, taking my hands from my pockets to set one of my midsection and the other behind my back. "I was remaining out here to avoid troubling you in case your gracious self was involved in some private matter." I bowed ridiculously and turned again to leave.

"No," she said, taking a few hurried steps toward me. "I was waiting for you to come back. I thought you were still gone..."

This was now the most she had ever spoken to me. Yet I couldn't understand why I felt the compelling need to keep her away from me by playing the part of the fool. Ever since she had arrived I hadn't changed the way I acted around her as I did in public. She knew full-well I was a werecat, just as she was, and yet I treated her as any other human. Perhaps I was wanting to keep that distance between us, that divide that kept us from being as open as any normal father and daughter. Heaviside, I had never been a father. I never felt the desire for it. It was almost naturally expected of Jellicles to become parents, and though I knew why I didn't understand that, either. I shook my head, still grinning.

"Well, as you see, madame, I'm quite here." I let my eyes fall to the gown that she wore, and reeling in surprise that was half genuine and half forced I took a few tentative steps towards her. "Sink me! Is that all you're wearing in this dreadful weather? Really, miss, you should take better care of yourself." I stopped when I was an arm's length from her, gesturing her back inside. "Off you pop, now. A warm bed is just the thing."

For a moment in the dark night setting our eyes met. Hers, wide and green, and mine, cold and brown. In that one look I felt a physical blow. She was in agony, and I couldn't understand it. Her heat had long since passed for this cycle. In no way the her physical state any torture to herself, and yet her eyes conveyed to me such pain I couldn't comprehend. That moment lasted an eternity, and was broken just as quick.

"Alright," she said, barely a whisper audible above the wind, and her eyes fell, her pain withdrawn back inside her after failing to reach out and grab any kind of possible comfort.

I hated treating her like this. I hated myself for keeping that flat, lazy mask of Hunter Blakeney turned against her when we shared the same Jellicle blood. I kept up my shield, blocking the ache in my heart from showing as she turned away, clutching her shoulders, bowing her head, and retreated back into the penthouse. I realized only then the cause of her unhappiness...she was lonely, too. And I was doing nothing to help it.

"Goodnight, madame." My voice, the incompetent ninny I had trained it to sound, was like striking a blow to her emotions. It hurt her, my coldness. I could see it in her emerald eyes. Why could I not treat her as she was an equal to me, not a sacred goddess with whom I had no business sharing my inner thoughts and feelings? These things I knew she was thinking. And it hurt. Perhaps treating her with this cold detachment was for the best, but—Heaviside—it hurt! I turned away after hearing the click of the double doors, then waited. After I was sure she was safe in her room I retired to my own, where I laid down and wept until sleep took me.